


to guide your eye

by smithens



Series: this sudden burst of sunlight [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1930s, Backstory, Childhood Memories, Clothed Sex, Clothing Kink, Crossdressing, Epistolary, Erotica, Lingerie, Little A Laundry, M/M, as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:20:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26114056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Richard tries something old; Thomas tries something new.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: this sudden burst of sunlight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949431
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	to guide your eye

**Author's Note:**

> > My cheeks were reflecting the longest wavelength  
> My fan was folded up and grazing my forehead  
> And I kept touching my neck  
> To guide your eye to where I wanted you to kiss me when we find some time alone.  
> 
> 
> — ["Anything We Want" by Fiona Apple](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKtOAdeHcYc)
> 
>  **content notes:** crossdressing, sexual content, references to drag performance, references to past homophobia & child abuse, assignment of gender to biological characteristics, body image/dysmorphia, oblique references to war trauma, a teensy amount of schmoop. 
> 
> the previous installments of [a love that won't sit still (series)](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747162) (especially [strange how I fit into you...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708473), [and I've been feeling weak without it...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207037) and [better late than the never we've been told before](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25300930)) are prerequisite reading. ♥

**Letter, from York, to London**

_23/11/33_

_Dearest Winifred…_

_..._

_… I wouldn't call it my finest hour, by the light of day I can see every wrong turn I took, but he seemed to come round by the end of it. Or as close as he'll be getting any time soon. Ask me what precisely I mean by that and I couldn't tell you. It would be easy for me to say that were I in his shoes I'd have no trouble with the idea at all—and truth be told I don't know that I would, given my history! I suppose you may find that wishful thinking on my part? The fact of the matter, Fred, is that I'll never fully understand it how he does, nor see it through his own eyes. We've such different stories. And from where I stand now his past is holding him back in places where my own isn't. He brought mine up, actually. I can't get the d— words out of my head. I would have thought that my old habits would reassure him; it seems the opposite is true. Perhaps because I've left them behind._

_Well, here's my conundrum: I can talk all I like, but when the sun sets at the end of the day I don't know that I'd care to be thought of as "the wife" myself. The difference, and I'm afraid this is rather a betrayal of confidences so I'll beg you not to share this even with Molly, is that I suspect he actually would._

_But he'll come round eventually if he's meant to. In the meantime I suppose I'd best prepare a proposal?_

_As for his health—thanks for enquiring—he's been under the weather but for now I think I can breathe easy. It's a recurring sort of thing, one I wasn't prepared to see from the front row at first, as it is difficult to see clearly when the better part of the relationship is brought about through correspondence and telephone calls. But now I have done I feel a fool for having missed its severity before it came to light. Every time I bring it up now he tells me I've done all I can for him and if I try to disagree I often find myself backed into a corner—he likes caring but not being cared for, or more accurately, he doesn't like looking as though he likes to be cared for. I'd ask if you ever encounter that with Molly but I've known you longer than you've known her, and now that I think about it I suspect in your house she's the one feeling like I am._

_If nothing else we've finally got ourselves back into ladies' tailoring, about which I shan't complain…_

_..._

_...give my regards to Molly, as well as my hopes that she's able to get some rest here and there. Night shifts are a blight on our household too as far as I'm concerned. If I make any headway regarding a telephone you'll be the first to know, but he's bullheaded when it comes to the pocketbook. Better for us that way, and we've stayed afloat owing to his captaincy so I won't whinge—only you're right it gets awful lonely when they're away! 25 years up at the big house made their mark on me. I can't bear to be by myself for too long, without Thomas especially so._

_Yours ever truly_

_your Disobedient servant,_

_Dick xxx_

* * *

**York, June 1934**

"Oh," Thomas says. He doesn't know what he expected. Not… this. "Oh."

Richard raises his eyebrows. "Surprised?"

Thomas swallows. "No," he says quietly. He might be lying. He can't tell.

"Not too far off from what I described, is it?"

"I know, but…"

But it hadn't prepared him for this—Richard's sprawled out on their bed atop the linens, one arm behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, in a dress and stockings, bloody fucking hell.

Maybe nothing could have prepared him for it.

 _You agreed to this,_ he reminds himself, _you were the one who fucking brought it up, as a matter of fact, so you don't get to back out now._

Only it had been a joke, at first, but then they'd got to talking and Richard had been so fucking sweet about it, charming him with _stories_ , and then he had to go and make it personal… personal for Thomas. As though seeing him dressed up would make every time he's ever been not-enough (of a man, of a lover, of a son…) stop mattering.

"You shaved," he says, stupidly. He hadn't this morning. He hasn't for a while, so the change is very conspicuous. It looks odd. Unfamiliar. That isn't going to help.

Thomas is long past pretending he doesn't like the facial hair. The disappointment probably shows up in his voice.

"Yeah, I did."

Uncomfortable, Thomas looks at the ceiling. It's a fine ceiling. Ordinary as anything. It has been there for him to look at throughout many awkward moments and it is there for him now.

_Stop thinking about it like it's a fucking person._

"I can change back," Richard says softly.

"No" comes out of his mouth quick. Unintentionally. It's sincere, though.

Probably he just needs a minute to adjust, come to terms with the difference between what he thought this was going to be and what this has turned _out_ to be.

Seeing as it has turned out to be something that he thinks might be more appealing than he'd anticipated.

Richard's naturally appealing, though. Everybody he's ever spoken to about it agrees with him there. He's appealing in a day suit and in pyjamas and in bib overalls and in nothing and now in a bloody dress, no wonder. It shouldn't be _surprising_ , nor unexpected.

"No," he says again, but he feels rooted in place in the doorway. He flexes and curls his hand—first without realising, then consciously after he does.

"Sweetheart…"

Oh, hell.

"I'm fine," Thomas snaps, and then he takes a deep breath, blinks for longer than a fraction of a second. "I'm fine," he repeats, more quiet.

"Why don't you come over and let me see for myself," says Richard, his chin up, his eyebrows lifted. Not judgmental, just poking fun at him if even that, but the knowledge he's just being himself doesn't stop Thomas from acting as if he's being criticised.

All these feelings over a fucking frock.

Once at the bed he seats himself beside Richard, back to his legs facing the window—the window that has the drapes already drawn, but that isn't stopping light from creeping in all the same.

The colour looks more impressive from this angle, up close, sun hitting pleats in just the right way that there's a different sheen when he looks closely… he looks nice in blue, doesn't he? Even when it's draped and shiny like this, a far cry from the matte and structure of a suitjacket.

"You're still being _you,_ right," says Thomas, finding the words for the discomfort that's been hanging around in the back of his mind all morning, this thing they never clarified and Richard's probably thought it was obvious all along, whatever the answer turns out to be, "you're not pretending like – because I'm not interested in – er, I don't want – look, I don't spend very much time thinking about women anymore – "

"It's not about that," Richard says, gently, if also emphatic. Himself, well and truly. As if to prove it he takes Thomas's hand and draws him to his chest, just over his heart. Thomas gets the picture. "It has nothing to do with women, Thomas."

_But it does have to do with something…_

"Just to do with me."

He's not defensive at all. Not the way Thomas already feels like he should be himself.

It's a gift, he knows, that he's _being himself_ as he does this, because from all they've discussed it seemed obvious that that wasn't always the case.

It is very, very easy for Richard to slip into other people's shoes, so easy it can get scary. Especially when Thomas has never been good at being anybody or anything else, despite years of trying.

Richard loosens his touch; Thomas pulls back his hand quick and pretends that Richard doesn't look disappointed in him when he does. (Fleeting, yes, but it's there. He noticed.)

He's never exactly had the opportunity to get up close to womenswear. Not like this.

"Don't be shy," and he's _teasing,_ but it feels like a criticism somehow.

"I'm not," Thomas snaps.

"Touch me, then...I don't bite."

Thomas snorts. "Liar," he says, but the mood's already been lifted. He manages to allow himself to explore: he feels him up through the skirt of the dress, around his thighs and hips, almost going to his groin; Richard looks highly amused but not uncomfortable.

Not even a little bit uncomfortable.

He starts to lift up the skirt but thinks better of it, in the end, instead just playing with the ruffle, inspecting the seams, the craftsmanship.

Once, a very, very long time ago, he'd looked at stacks of tissue-wrapped dresses and blouses and skirts in the luggage room at the Abbey and thought, _lady's maids have all the fun._

He doesn't know why he's remembering that, now.

"More underneath," Richard says eventually, after he's been playing with the same piece for too long, probably. "Go on, Thomas, it's for you as much as me."

Well, he doesn't know how to feel about him saying a thing like that, but…

 _Underneath_ sits a plain ivory slip in a simple weave, fabric smooth upon his fingers but clinging to Richard's legs. There's one narrow tuck near the hem, and when Thomas looks closely, a few neat rows of needle marks where maybe there used to be more. Beneath it, pale, knitted hose, unmistakably a woman's—unmistakably the sort _made_ for a woman—going all the way up past his knees, disappearing under…

Thomas pushes up the slip and the skirt of the dress both, over his thighs, bunching up the fabric at his hips.

His mouth feels dry. "Lots of pieces," he says, eyeing what must be the last bit—silky looking drawers, snug at his hips and waist, flaring around the thigh. When Thomas pokes at it, light reflects off the fabric. They're ivory, too, and shiny. Satin weave. But it's different than anything he's touched before that he can remember.

"What is this, viscose?"

Richard makes a face. "You think you know a man," he says.

"I'm only asking."

"I do have standards, Thomas."

_This is what happens when you marry a fucking valet._

"It's just cotton," he adds, "sateen."

Yeah, well, he _knows_ what sateen is usually like, and this is different. "Then why's it – "

"Because women are allowed delicates and we aren't."

"Well," Thomas says. Richard's mouth is open, a half smile. "You never have shied from breaking rules, have you, Mr Ellis."

Full smile.

There's a gap of skin between the tops of the stockings and the lace hem of the pants, and – and there is something else, too, something he can't put his finger on, that keeps drawing his eye back over and over again, something off at the same time as it is alluring, even as he tries to look somewhere else, anywhere else. With the skirts up around his waist it's all too easy for Thomas to stare, though, and stare he does, because it's…. it's pretty. He looks pretty.

"It _is_ a lot of pieces, though," says Thomas quickly.

"Mhm."

"Dunno how they do it."

"Well, we used to have plenty of layers on our own," Richard says nonchalantly, but Thomas shakes his head.

"Not like this."

"Well, thinking about all what goes into a proper footman's livery…"

Pretending he's listening, Thomas sticks two fingers beneath the band of a stocking and tugs, gently. The fabric puckers between two suspender clips—a far cry from stocking garters, he thinks in the back of his mind.

Those are different nowadays, too… New developments. Modern comforts—they never had _elastic_ as footmen, though at least at Downton they never had to wear bloody breeches and wig powder neither _._ Whoever was in charge of patterning liveries never liked to touch anything new to the garment industry in the last century… and Richard turns up his nose at anything you could call manufactured, really.

He's a modern until you go near his wardrobe.

In _one_ sense, at least, traditional methods and materials and the like, he still makes his own fucking shoe polish for crying out loud, but he's also the most sharp dresser Thomas knows, and…

And what they're doing now can hardly be called old fashioned, can it?

"How does it all fit?" Thomas asks softly, interrupting. "Didn't think they made your size _pret à porter._ "

"They don't," he says, with a laugh. Sometimes Thomas wonders if everything isn't all a joke to him. "I had help."

No difficulty guessing from who.

"You can take it off," adds Richard, "if you'd like to see more of me."

Thomas slips his fingers out from the stocking but leaves his hand where it is, his knuckles grazing the soft, pale skin of Richard's thighs—just the few inches of it that are visible. It is enough that he is able to watch as his muscles tense and then relax, anticipating.

He is struck very suddenly with the realisation that he could so very easily turn his hand, reach inside the other direction and touch there, but he tamps down the urge. He won't. Not yet, at least, but he hasn't even figured out if this is… if that's what this _is._ They didn't really talk that part over.

He's been biting his lip. He just now realised. "...what?"

Once he manages to shake himself out of it Richard's grinning.

"You can take off the dress, dear."

"Won't say no," he says, lilting. But he can't resist touching it again, if he's going to take it off of him. They've only got so much time.

Reverse order: the slip comes first, and Richard arches his back to allow him to tug it back down over his thighs, beautifully, though thinking of it like that is awkward. Then he takes hold of the skirt and smooths it back down again with both hands, covering everything up. The picture of decency and nothing amiss, til you lift your eyes and look at his chest.

The whole look suits him very well. Height of fashion, because of course it is, but not made with the same materials ( _that_ he'd have drawn the line at, financially speaking, they can't exactly afford luxury) (yes, it was paid for mostly with bartering, but even so) though you probably wouldn't know it unless you got this close, and Thomas is the only person who ever will. The sleeves seem to narrow his shoulders, the skirt is full enough to give the impression of hips… it fits. The fact that he hasn't actually _got_ hips is seamlessly concealed.

Still, Richard can play pretend all he likes, but there are some things he will never have. That is one of them.

Something to be glad of.

Thomas likes him best straight and firm.

Well, maybe not quite so firm, these days. Not as much as he used to be, although he's kept in much better shape than Thomas has. Even if he'd deny that Thomas has long lost his figure no matter how he was pressed.

But he is a man, and Thomas likes the sturdy lines of his body, the hair on his chin and his chest and trailing down from his navel to his cock, the low warmth of his voice, Yorkshire vowels and all.

"There's a tie at the back."

 _Roll over, then._ He does so without being told, toward the centre of the bed.

Yes, there's a tie… an attached one, lest he get any ideas, but there isn't anything else, is the thing. No buttons, no hooks and eyes…

"How did you get this on by yourself?" Thomas asks, incredulous.

And not too long ago he'd been thinking about bloody lady's maids.

"Carefully."

"Yeah, but…"

As soon as the bow at the small of his back is undone Richard turns back over, looking very self-satisfied. He lifts one arm, and at first Thomas doesn't notice—there's a flap at the side. He pulls back a corner.

Buttons.

"That's smart," he mutters.

"Most people don't have help every morning."

" _You_ do."

"But I didn't with this, now, did I."

Slowly, slowly, slowly he strips Richard out of the dress.

It takes manoeuvring— _carefully_ indeed, fuck—but soon enough he's got the sleeves off of his arms and the bodice lower on his torso, revealing the rest of his back and shoulders, broad and toned, mottled with tan that won't ever fade, hair fine... Unable to resist, Thomas presses a kiss square in the middle of his upper back, right at a protrusion of his spine. _Sturdy._ The collar of the dress creates a triangle from the centre down to the small of his back, revealing his foundations: a thin-strapped camisole, underneath which is… not a corset, but something like it, no straps, and it doesn't go further down than just-above-his-hips, but it's structured. Shaping. From this angle it all makes for a very good approximation of a woman's figure.

Richard settles on his back again; Thomas tugs by the skirt and then the waistband to drag it (gently!) off over his hips and legs.

Here's something he never thought he'd ever do, pull a dress off somebody in the bedroom.

(Or anywhere else, but _especially_ in the bedroom.)

And then he's out of it, arms and legs and torso uncovered, knees bent and legs spread just slightly.

He can't tell if he's going too fast or not, but Richard doesn't seem to mind, if he is. And there is something more alluring about the underclothes than there was for the dress, though who knows why.

Thomas folds the dress and realises as he's doing it that he doesn't actually know how to do it properly.

Doing it like tails is probably close enough, he reasons, and the look on Richard's face as he silently gets up to set it on top of the dresser—amused, same as ever, but fond, too, lips parted, a sweetly intense look in his eyes; he doesn't turn away when Thomas meets his gaze—tells him he did the right thing.

"Thanks," he says softly, as Thomas settles beside him again and lays a hand upon his knee, finely woven hose beneath his fingers.

"We'll have to find some place for it all," Thomas says absentmindedly, "a proper one."

Because you've got to treat a man's wardrobe a certain way, Richard's always saying, and that probably applies here even more than anywhere else… they need a _safe_ place, too, somewhere hidden, nobody should ever be snooping through their things but if somebody ever _is,_ they can't find anything incriminating in the flat.

And this would certainly be incriminating.

Richard raises his fucking eyebrows and lifts his head, superior; he says, "we're making a habit of it, then, are we," and Thomas feels like what he means is, _I told you so._ He swallows. He stares at the floor.

"Right," says Richard after a moment, softer now, "the girdle's hookless—right here."

Which gets him to look up again.

Thomas hadn't wanted to move on so fast, necessarily, but he's relieved that he's allowed to. May as well keep going.

Things never stay awkward between the two of them for very long.

Richard lifts his other arm this time, settling with his hand behind his head. The pull to the fastener is tucked right under the armscye of the camisole. (The whole thing is sturdier than Thomas would have thought, although when he thinks about it really ought to be sturdy, given what it's made for. The boning does its job, even if it hasn't got anything to hold up.)

Leaning over, without saying anything because he can't think what _to_ say, and Richard just gave him a chance to tap out so he's not going to bother trying, Thomas takes it and drags it down, slowly, parting the pieces—it's very _structured_. Beneath it is a sleek and shiny camisole tucked into the wide waistband of the drawers. Strangely Thomas finds himself disappointed he hadn't chosen something more revealing… they've got brassieres and such now, haven't they, and –

He blinks away the thought.

Richard looks like he knows what this is doing to him. Thankfully he keeps his mouth shut about it.

What else is he supposed to think about while getting him out of _women's clothing_?

Once it's unzipped all the way, and as luck would have it his fingers don't tremble, there is no difficulty in removing the thing—especially with how Richard arches his back and lifts his hips… it slips out from underneath him with no trouble at all.

_Well._

Well.

"Don't you cut a figure."

Richard beams.

 _You are so darling,_ Thomas thinks. There's a lump in his throat all of a sudden.

Out loud he only says "my darling," and as he leans down to give him a kiss Richard pushes himself up to meet him; it's long and slow and perfect, his mouth warm, his tongue gentle, tasting of himself same as always, and it comforts him somehow, that no matter what he's feeling and no matter what Richard's wearing this part is the same.

Thomas is still wearing more than he is, which is a bit awkward, but it'd be even more awkward if he just started undressing out of nowhere.

He breaks the kiss and almost does anyway, then thinks better of it. Still seated above him, he sets his hand at the side of Richard's face, strokes his cheekbone with his thumb… the sight of him smiling (kindly, sweetly, fondly) up at him is overwhelming in a way it hasn't been for a long, long time.

Just for a moment, Thomas closes his eyes.

He moves his palm to the underside of Richard's jaw.

He does like it smooth, too.

The smile is still there when he opens his eyes again, but he doesn't look at it for too long, lowering down again to kiss his chin this time, not like usual, no stubble rough against his lips—then the underside of his jaw, which is shaven, too, his neck, his Adam's apple, the pulsepoint of his throat…

"All right?" he asks as he moves lower, forcing himself to keep his hands in their places. No fondling, even if he wants it. He doesn't know the score yet.

He'd be awfully surprised if this didn't turn out that way, but Richard is very good at surprising him, when he likes to be.

The real question is what's it for: if it is all to do with sex and always has been, or if it isn't, and Thomas is looking at things under the wrong light because he likes the idea of...

"Better than."

Relieved, Thomas nods before carrying on, though he still doesn't look at him.

They've undressed. Of course this is meant to be _like that_.

The hair on Richard's chest (thankfully still present) begins just shortly before he's covered up by the camisole—no change there—but Thomas lingers anyway, breathing against him. Richard hums. _Glad you're pleased,_ thinks Thomas, at last moving his hands, keeping his touches light. Shoulder, upper arm, inner elbow.

 _And_ you _are more pleased than you want to be,_ he thinks to himself.

The delicate lace of the neckline feels like it might snag on his lips; it doesn't. Drawing his lips over it makes him shiver, and it feels like Richard does, too—whether he's imagining it or not he can't tell, but it serves to make him stir even so.

Now that he's at the clothing he skims with his lips instead of kissing, only his breath, nothing wet or messy.

Only he skips his groin.

To tease. Seeing as Richard doesn't seem anywhere close yet to _hard_ his thighs are an all right compromise.

And then Richard lays his hand at the top of his head and says, "taking your time this afternoon."

"I'm following your lead, is what I'm doing," he returns, slipping his fingers once again under the rim of the stocking, pressing his thumb at the buckle. It'd be so easy…

"Keep going, if you like."

Encouraged, Thomas unclasps it, presses a kiss to Richard's knee and starts rolling the stocking down his leg—with his hands, no different from doing it the way he usually would, only it just has farther to go, this time.

If he's undressing him (if he let him stick his hands where they've been in the first place, if he let him kiss him from his mouth all the way down to here), this is all probably _very much_ to do with sex... And he was daft to wonder otherwise. What else could it be? They haven't talked about it much, is the thing. Hardly at all, really, except that first night in Downton, going on at length about how they'd known, how they'd figured it out, how other people had. Thomas has never liked to since and Richard's respected that, mostly, even if he's got pushy about it in the past…

But he hasn't got pushy, has he. Not very. Thomas has only felt like he has before because he can't tell the bloody difference between somebody who's interested and somebody who's pulling his leg, but that's over with, where Richard's concerned. Mostly. Usually he can, now.

Only he'd said once it was like pulling teeth, trying to get his own thoughts out of him. The more important ones, at least. Now that they're together all the time he doesn't have anything to protect himself the way he does when he's writing a letter, so it's harder. Even after he got over the butterflies of just-having-met-him it just got easier and easier spilling his thoughts all over the place writing letters, and he's spent the last year and some—ever since they've been seeing each other on the regular—trying to get that ease back.

He got too comfortable hiding things for a little while, too.

Thomas tugs the stocking off of his toes, rolls it up, and sets it on Richard's chest. Tada. "And this?"

"Just a knit."

"She didn't make them, did she?"

"No, I bought 'em. They'd come up higher, if they were custom."

"Looks high to me…"

"You ever seen a woman in suspenders?"

Thomas stares at him blankly.

"In magazine advertisements, yes."

"Right," Richard says. He sets the side of his hand upon his thigh, pushing up the hem of the drawers. ( _Those_ must have been custom.) "Generally they stop here. Had to fix these ones up."

"Maybe you should get proper hose next."

He says it without thinking.

"You'd like me in that, would you?"

"If it fit you how all this does." He sticks his hand into the other stocking; Richard flinches even before he can tickle the back of his knee.

Very well, is how it fits him.

"Fit's the most important thing," as Thomas starts peeling it off of his leg.

Based off the available information he wouldn't mind seeing him in something more along those lines. He likes seeing him in this, after all, decked out head to toe and confident in it, shameless.

Very, very confident, for a man in women's intimates.

"When I was a boy I had it easy," Richard says after a moment. His gaze is so piercing Thomas could almost worry it'll give him a headache. "Gangly as a foal and light as a feather… anything that fit my sisters could fit me, for a time."

They're getting to the part Thomas knows about. "Could or did?" he asks slyly.

"Did," without a trace of shame. "Soon as I knew we wore different things I started nicking theirs."

"Can't've been very old then."

"I wasn't… not more than three, I think."

Three years old. God.

"How did it work, exactly?" asks Thomas.

"Well, we all shared a room… I knew where to look."

"Didn't they find out?"

He is beginning to feel like he's doing some kind of interrogation, but he's _curious_ , because for as many times as this has come up before, he doesn't actually know much about it.

It's his own fault. He hasn't wanted to til now.

Richard raises his eyebrows. He's blushing, almost. Or he will be soon. It's always been a good look for him. "I've told you _that_ story..."

And how very bold of him to have done, seeing as it was on the very first night they ever spent together. If it had been him Thomas wouldn't have dared tell a stranger something like that.

"I remember," Thomas counters. He couldn't possibly forget. "But you never said how long you did it for."

"Told you about drag," Richard counters.

"That's different."

"How so?"

Thomas stares. "You of all people should know."

"I don't follow," he says, a glint in his eye; no matter how shy he seemed just now he's not showing it anymore.

So, he _does_ follow, probably, he's just trying to get Thomas to say what he means the first time instead of…

What he usually does. That was the last thing they argued about, come to think of it, but he has no right to criticise him for that when half the words that come out of his mouth are metaphors or figures of speech. It's a different sort of talking around, that.

Just when Thomas is about to start brooding, Richard reaches up toward him and takes hold of his shoulder, thumb pressing in circles.

He tries again. "Well, when you do it in private surely it's…"

"What is it?"

Though clearly amused, he says it like it's a challenge. Thomas huffs. Everything turns out to be a game with him eventually, even _this_ …

"If you were that young when you started…"

"Was I getting off on it, you mean?"

His tone is much too innocent for the words he's saying. Thomas scowls by accident, then makes no attempt to stop, but it only makes Richard laugh.

"Thomas, it had very little to do with sex until after I'd grown hair between my legs," he says after catching his breath. "And by that time everything under the sun had to do with sex."

"But you _did_ keep doing it," Thomas says. His own voice sounds very accusing—but it isn't meant to be; he'd swear to that.

"Unfortunately for my poor mother, yeah."

If his _own_ mother had ever walked in on him wearing anything of Margaret's he'd have bloody died, no matter at what age. Good thing he never _wore_ anything of Margaret's. He may have spent more time in his mother's lap than his father's, but he never took anything that far.

Sometimes when they get to talking he wonders if that was just because he never had the chance.

"My dad would've killed me," Thomas says bluntly. It's at least the third time he's said something he didn't mean to say out loud since they've started. "Over less."

Richard squeezes his hand. "Mine never found out," he says slowly. There is something very odd about sitting here beside him while he says such things with those clothes on.

Thomas hadn't known that about his father. "About any of it?" he asks.

"Not to my knowledge."

"And?"

"I don't know that he'd have been understanding, if he had… was strict, after all, wanted us to be seen and not heard."

But he never raised a hand or his voice, and he never made anybody beg for attention, and he never sent his youngest to bed without tucking him in when he was small.

"You'll remember his wasn't the domestic side, and add to that he'd… he'd never got on with my uncle." Richard's fingers make for a pearly button of the camisole; Thomas grabs his wrist before he can make it. _No fidgeting in fancy dress,_ he thinks. If he remembers he'll say so out loud later, make him chuckle. "He was still in service; they didn't have many chances for getting to know each other."

"Your Uncle Lewis."

"The very same."

Valet to the late Duke of Crowborough, and then to Edward VII, and then to _nobody_ … and _delicate_ to his very core.

Thomas likes him a lot.

"I don't know if Dad would ever've come round to it."

"The clothes," Thomas asks, "or the men?'

"Either," Richard says. "Both."

So they've both got problems in this department.

Richard knows all about his, but it doesn't go both ways.

It's different when your dad's dead, he figures. And when he was never so bad, didn't give you as many things to play in your head over and over again for the rest of your life, wishing things had gone different, trying to find something or somebody else to make up for everything that did and didn't happen when you were a boy...

Thomas tries his best to bloody _breathe_.

He beats back whatever thing was going to come over him and grabs Richard's hand, strokes the inside of his wrist with his fingertips. All it takes is a nod for him to feel okay to lift their joined hands up to his face and kiss—the back of his hand, his knuckles, his fingers. The ring he wears. Thomas still has his glove on, but even so, it always feels special when they're wearing them at the same time.

Is that how other couples get to feel day and night?

"But you did it before he died, didn't you, so how did it work – "

"So, my mum's good at keeping secrets. No more and no less."

He's a little too sharp for Thomas's liking: the look on his face, the tone of his voice. Then he blinks and it's gone, so serene it may not have happened at all… but he caught it when it was there.

"All of you are," Thomas mumbles, dropping his hand and his eyes both. "Your family."

"Lucky for us."

Very, _very_ lucky for them…

"Did you really take it up at three?" he asks, uncomfortable with the new tone of the conversation and aiming to change it, but truth be told he doesn't know how light the rest of it will be, if he gets all of his questions answered.

And he has very many he thinks he'd like to ask.

"Thereabouts."

"But you can't've _understood…_ "

"Well, I don't remember if I did or I didn't," Richard says casually. "Though once I got older I at least had enough of a brain to know it wasn't something that interested the other boys in school."

"Yeah?"

"But by that age there were other things on my mind... other things to try and be, so if only one of them had to be secret that was no skin off my back… but then Hannah left, and Dad died, and when I finally realised that I was…"

_Queer._

"...as you and I are…"

Thomas has to grab his hand again before the nerves get the best of him and he pulls a button off. Once he has Richard smiles, sheepish.

"Took me til much later to put two and two together to make four," he murmurs, soft-eyed. Their eyes are locked; it makes Thomas's heart race. "After I moved to London I figured I could make all the pieces fit somehow, and I _did_ , for the most part. It wasn't til after the war I shelved it for good – "

"Not for good," Thomas interjects, "you're here now, aren't you?"

"After about fifteen years."

God, has it really been that long?

He sidesteps the subject. It's a dance he's used to by now. "When you were younger, though."

"Yeah?"

"You never wanted to - to _shelve it_ , though, did you, it was just 'cause you…"

"Yeah, I think I liked it far too much to want to put it away of my own accord."

He's so nonchalant it almost hurts.

Thomas nods. "But didn't you ever feel…"

Somehow he can't find the right words— there's too much in his head to pick just one thing. He supposes what he'd really like to ask is, _have you always been so fucking sure of yourself,_ even though he knows the answer to that one already. For this and for plenty of other things. Richard's always been far more confident than Thomas is… _truly_ confident, truly comfortable with himself and not just projecting, not just pretending to be—he has his moments of doubt but they are far and few between.

And never when Thomas thinks he should falter.

Now is turning out to be one of those times.

But he understands what Thomas is trying to get at, because he always does. "The good feelings outweighed the bad, actually," he says, "for a time, only I…"

"Yes?"

Richard sort of shrugs. "Only I remember I wore a petticoat to bed for the first time when I was seven or so." He pauses. "Under my nightclothes… seven, I said, well after I'd realised what all I liked to do when I had time to myself was _abnormal,_ to be clear—and, er, by morning I felt so ashamed I could've cried, promised myself I'd never do it again…"

Thomas scoffs. "How'd that turn out?"

"Didn't even make it a week," he says, sort of sheepish, but he still can't tell just how much. "To this day I'm not sure if it was the stealing or the act itself that had me feeling as I did, but after I tried again I kept it up and almost nightly, at that, for a while at least. Couldn't resist the temptation."

"Does it count as stealing, if you give it back after?"

Never quite has in Thomas's book, morally speaking, but he'd be the first to admit he's not exactly the bloke you ought to go to for _moral_ advice of that sort.

Richard would be the second.

"When did I say I gave it back?"

Thomas blinks at him.

After a long, awkward moment of just them staring at each other, Richard breaks out into a smile again and laughs. "I always put everything back where I found it." Twinkle in his eye and all. "I'm something of a stickler in that regard."

Because he needs to be _told_ that, when they bloody live together...

"With clothes, you mean."

"Yeah."

Not with anything else, unfortunately.

After a year he's used to it.

Thomas laughs, more awkwardly than Richard had done. He takes a deep breath. "How long _did_ you do it for, then, if… if you…"

Made the pieces fit.

"Longer than I should have…" He's still grinning; Thomas reaches down and pushes a wavy lock of hair out from in front of his eyes. That smile always makes him feel warm all over, even now with this pit in his stomach. "Like I said… til I was eleven or so, after Hannah went into service."

"And took her clothes with her."

"Yeah, I reckon that was why."

"Would you've kept it up? If she hadn't gone?"

Richard shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not… no way of knowing, is there?" He sets his hand on Thomas's thigh and strokes with his thumb, exactly how he does when he gets upset. "But I didn't stop for very long."

He's not upset.

"London."

"London, yeah." A pause. "And in Flanders, a few years later, pantomime and whatnot..."

On show.

They're still not going to talk about that if Thomas can help it… Asking questions about anything Richard got up to in wartime may as well be standing up on the table and shouting _let's ruin the mood why don't we._ But he remembers what all that was like—watching, not doing. _How is it different, doing it in front of other people,_ he wants to ask, _is it different at all._ It must be. He could never do it, himself, get up in front of people and pretend as if he was a woman, nevermind what he'd have to wear to do it right, whether it's the gaudy mess he remembers seeing blokes get up to in those days or like _this,_ where it's — _artistic_ and _delicate_ and soft and pretty and whatever else.

Then, he could never do any of this.

 _Never say never,_ Richard would say.

"I know."

"I know you do."

Thomas huffs. "The chaps you did it for," he starts, but he doesn't know what he's asking, exactly. Richard raises his eyebrows; Thomas shrugs. "When it _was_ , erm, private," he adds lamely, "were they very…"

Awkward, he lets his words trail off, lets the thought hang in the air until he can figure out how to anchor it.

But it turns out he doesn't have to.

"They liked it for different reasons than me, if I catch your drift," Richard answers eventually, slow, eyes piercing, but he may as well be talking about the weather. "But then I liked doing it regardless, so I couldn't complain."

He used to get asked to do that sort of thing, himself. Every so often. Told, more like. But he always nipped that in the bud or dumped the man, if giving him something else he liked instead wasn't possible.

"Clothes were different in those days," Thomas mumbles.

"They most certainly were." Richard drums his fingers in a pattern over his thigh, and Thomas almost shivers. Almost. "More required underneath, for one."

He tries to imagine Richard in a proper corset. He can't.

Thomas looks away, toward the window. The curtains are drawn but light still creeps into the room, filtering in between the drape and the rod and the weave of the fabric, illuminating the dust in the air. Beside and below him the sateen of Richard's drawers glimmers; the lace casts a scalloped shadow on his thigh.

No denying he's awestruck.

He doesn't know if he _likes_ that he is, but then he hasn't got any control over how he's feeling, has he? Just like the rest.

"But yeah, I never much minded the attention," Richard goes on. "I've always liked playing, stepping into somebody else's shoes, only with ladies' things it felt more like it fit." Thomas turns from him again. He had no trouble looking him in the eyes before but he is having it now. "And less like putting something on… _was_ still putting something on _,_ mind, only this kind's always been easier for me than acting normal."

"Even so," Thomas says, "you're better at doing normal than I am."

"Oh?"

Thomas nods.

Maybe that shouldn't have anything to do with it.

Well, he _knows_ it shouldn't. He _knows_ plenty—what this means, what it doesn't, what it's got to do with him (not very much, unless he wants it to, Richard's gone to lengths to make that clear)—but knowing something's true isn't the same as believing it. And if it has nothing to do with him, why can't he stop turning it over in his head? He can't make himself feel the way he ought, can't sort out the difference between what he _is_ feeling and what he _should_ be. He can't stop looking at Richard's legs, neither, at the light brown hair over his shins and calves, skin pale; the way he looks next to Thomas himself—or would, if Thomas were similarly undressed. He's not as hairy as Thomas is, his legs are skinnier, but the insides of his thighs are soft. He is _very_ familiar with Richard's thighs, as he well should be, by now. Sometimes when they were apart, when he was at Downton and he was in London or wherever else the Household took him, he'd worried he'd forget, what he was like, but he never has.

He sets his hand on Richard's leg, just above the knee, spreading his fingers. His muscles flex against his palm—something he's doing on purpose, Thomas can be sure of that. He inches his hand up until the lace brushes over his nails, eyes to the floor. The rug is crooked at one corner, bunched up… Part of him wants to get up and kick it back down. He doesn't. Instead he stays put, curving his hand around Richard's thigh, moving higher and higher up on his leg. There's not much farther to go.

Yesterday he did the laundering and now he's got dry skin to show for it; the fabric slips easily over the back of his hand but almost catches on his knuckles. This time he _does_ shiver.

When he looks over and down at him again Richard's still beaming. "You want to know what I think?" he asks, light. The tone of his voice on its own is enough that whatever reverie he'd fallen into comes to an abrupt end.

"About acting normal?"

He shakes his head.

"Then I doubt it," Thomas tells him. He's teasing, but his voice feels hoarse and serious.

He knows where this is going.

Richard laughs. Either he didn't pick up on it (not likely) or he saw through it and paid it no mind. "I think," he lets go of his leg to lay his hand on Thomas's forearm, wraps his fingers round, stilling him before he can go much further, "that you care for this more than you're letting on, Mr Barrow."

Even having guessed he was bound to say something like that, hearing it is still unsettling. His own thoughts aloud, like he's plucked them right out of his head. Thomas swallows. "Well," he says. "I."

"C'mere," Richard says, tugging at his wrist to pull his hand out from his pants. Thomas lets him. "Let me kiss you."

So he swings his legs up, back onto the bed, and lies down beside him, gives him a quick peck on the lips—then another at the corner of his mouth for good measure. Richard quirks one eyebrow higher than the other. Their noses aren't even an inch apart but he knows a thoughtful face when he sees one. Thomas closes his eyes. "I don't know if I like it or not," he whispers. He draws back, propping himself up on his elbow. Richard's still got one hand behind his head, lounging. Since taking off the dress he's hardly moved.

"Well, you don't have to like it at all," says Richard, noncommittal. "But I can be very persuasive." His eyes are searching. "Should I choose to be."

" _Will_ you choose to be?"

Richard hums. "Would you ask me that if you weren't okay with the outcome either way, d'you think?"

Probably not.

"How am I to know," he says instead, but he may as well be answering the question; before Richard can come back with some lengthy old-fashioned turn of phrase he leans down to kiss him again.

And this time he lets Richard kiss back, lets him set one hand on his cheek and jaw and the other on his hip, lets his fingers wander over the back crease of his thigh and between his legs. Lets him take control—he'd like to be in charge, that much is clear, he's determined, with his lips and his teeth but also with his fingertips stroking along the felled inside seam of his trousers from behind _,_ with the thumb of his other hand firm at his cheekbone. Thomas may be above him but he is melting all over.

He ends up draped over him in no time. As soon as he has Richard unbuttons his braces from the back, sneaky; the sudden change in pressure over his chest and at his trousers makes him stop a moment.

He catches his breath.

Shirtsleeves don't usually serve to make him feel overdressed but they certainly do now.

Thomas can't resist it anymore; he reaches down between them to lay his hand at Richard's groin, through the drawers. Nobody makes anything as soft and sleek as that for men.

Speaking of soft, he realises quick what the thing-he-couldn't-put-his-finger-on was, now that he's got his hand down there. "Dick, what did you do?"

"Tucked."

"Oh," Thomas murmurs. He'd known you _could,_ theoretically speaking, but he's "never actually seen that before," this close up at least, let alone done it himself, and then, feeling around through the fabric, fingers under Richard's prick, back between his thighs, _it really is different_ , "what the _fuck._ "

Richard sucks in a breath, body tensing; " _Jesus_ , Thomas, it's all still _there._ "

He pulls his hand away. "Sorry."

"Fuck," mutters Richard, shifting—he pulls his knees up and then sits up all the way

Damnit.

"I said _sorry_ ," Thomas whines; he sits up again, too. _Don't pout_ , he scolds himself, but telling himself off never does him much good.

"I'm not cross," he replies, his voice still a bit strained, "only – "

Only uncomfortable, because Thomas just had to go and put his hands somewhere they didn't (necessarily, at least) belong.

"Just a bit much," Richard continues, more gently; he lays his hand upon Thomas's forearm. They're eye to eye now. "But I think it's served its purpose."

Thomas nods awkwardly.

He can't stop _staring..._

It takes some adjusting; he has to unbutton the pants and stick his hands certain places—Thomas almost feels like he ought to be giving him privacy, ridiculous as it sounds, they're as close as they can possibly _be,_ he's seen him in plenty more compromising positions than this—but then in no time at all he's done them up again ( _good,_ Thomas thinks as he notices), and he lies back down, and…

Thomas feels like an idiot for it having taken him so long to have noticed. The difference is fucking obvious.

Still, he'd had other things on his mind. _._

After a nod of assent Thomas touches him again, wordlessly, just laying his hand flat on his crotch, moving his palm just slightly back and forth against him. As he does Richard is completely, utterly silent, just watching him with his lips open and the ever-present smile in his eyes, gaze tracing up and down. Watching himself get touched. He's so perfect. Somehow Thomas ended up the luckiest man on Earth, finding him… let alone keeping him. Let alone sharing his bed every night, waking up together, seeing each other every way there is.

Richard gives him a lot of himself. More than he has ever had or will ever have from anybody else, and all Thomas would like is to remain worthy of it.

He touches him as if he doesn't care it even know at all what it's doing to him (he _does_ care of course, he's just not going to put any effort in yet, not when acting like he doesn't gets them to where it always does). Soon enough he's not soft anymore, the outline of his prick obvious in the fabric. There's a seam. It must chafe, Thomas reasons, but whether it does or doesn't, Richard's not exactly hard yet but plainly on his way.

There's something that's nice about getting older. Things last a lot longer now.

And all he has to do now is help him along...

As Thomas presses down Richard's eyelids flutter and he sighs, happy.

Thomas watches in awe — maybe it's the clothes making him feel this way, maybe it isn't, but it's _different_ than usual — as Richard turns his head to one side, hips lifting. He presses against him again.

There are better ways to do this, though, and he stops for a moment just to readjust. He ends up settled kneeling between Richard's legs, spread not quite as far as they can go (Thomas _knows_ just how far they can go) but still enough apart that he's got plenty of room where he is, and many angles from which to approach.

Just means he doesn't have to waste time before touching him again.

With his other hand he reaches toward his face, stroking his fingers at his cheekbone, tender as he can. It's a balancing act, on his knees how he is, but a worthwhile one. "Well, I don't mind you like _this_ , at least," he teases.

"I love you," returns Richard, looking him in the eyes now.

"You're just saying that so I'll take these off of you," Thomas counters, plucking a fold into the fabric, letting go of him only to slip three fingertips beneath the lacy cuff at his thigh, knuckles against his skin.

"Charming as ever," breathier than before, as though it's a struggle to get the words out. Maybe it is.

Thomas stops trying to reach into his pants from the leghole and goes for fondling him through them again.

For all he'd said about it _having very little to do with sex,_ he is clearly very excited now.

And…

And Thomas is, too, not just for the feel of him firming against his hand but for how he looks like, for that cheeky smile and the blush in his cheeks and ears and the soft soft silkiness of his clothes, the sheen of the small buttons along his sternum and the nip where a waist could be and the _lace,_ God, the fucking lace, all around his leg right at the crease between his thigh and backside, along the neckline of that camisole, too, not rough and stiff like Thomas usually thinks it'll be, it is all fragile and careful and seeing him like this flushed and sweating and fuck it must've taken so much of him to ask Thomas to see him like this but he doesn't regret saying yes at _all,_ "I like it," Thomas confesses, "I – "

"You don't have to decide right now," Richard returns, much too coherent this time. Thomas squeezes him again between the legs, prompting a gasp; his eyes shut. He is bound to start trying for the upper hand any minute now.

With any luck he won't get it.

"Lovely," murmurs Thomas. He didn't entirely mean to say it out loud. "But then you can carry anything off, can't you."

"You reckon?"

"I do, yes," he replies, and then he leans down to kiss him again before he can get a word in edgewise. "God, I do," he says against his mouth.

It's too much almost. If he'd been having an off day he might've lost his head already.

Hopefully he won't at all, since he hasn't so far.

"You've got all the time in the world to make up your mind, love."

"Done it already," Thomas tells him, flippant.

"Oh, you'll be turning it over in your head for a while yet, I think..."

Maybe.

But he isn't now.

He shuts up; so does Richard. Turns out there is no upper hand, just Thomas giving and him taking, him letting Thomas take care of him.

It is not long before Richard is rocking up toward his hand and whimpering, before Thomas is hard in his trousers and dangerously close to trying to rub off on his own arm, before Richard tilts his head back and loudly moans and begins to slip off what's left...

"No," Thomas says, "no, keep them on," stopping his fingers as they push under the waistband of the drawers. Richard had stilled as soon as the first _no_ came out of his mouth (he's respectful now same as always) but he stays that way even after he's said it all.

"Keep them on," Richard repeats, eyebrows lifted. He makes no effort to shake Thomas off. "You want me to come like this, you mean."

Thomas, still holding him by the wrist, nods. His heart is pounding. He can't stop staring at his crotch, at the bulge up against the front seam. Those were never meant to accommodate a prick. Richard must be aching.

The thought of that has him on pins and needles.

He'll be aching soon himself if they don't get on with this.

"Sounds like a mess," says Richard—he may be smirking, he may be trying with all he's got to stay casual, but he's breathless.

"Not for you to worry about," Thomas returns, his own voice suddenly shaky. "You don't do the washing."

Richard's smile goes soft and fond. Reminding him of that in the heat of the moment never fails.

"As long as you can get it out."

"What do you take me for," Thomas counters.

"Somebody who hasn't valeted a man for almost fifteen years, I suppose."

"You don't know my work history as well as you think you do, Mr Ellis," he says, and then, because this line of conversation is not exactly going to keep him in the mood, he shifts the subject: "...what do you call me undressing _you_ all the time, then?"

And dressing him, if less often.

"Courting."

It's not the answer he expected. Thomas laughs. Richard looks as self-satisfied as he ever sees him.

"Won't you, then?" Thomas asks, back to the previous subject.

Richard grins. "Depends… what do you have on?"

That is not a promising question.

"The usual."

Separates.

"You, too, then."

"Er…"

"It's only fair," Richard says, earnest. Too earnest. No resisting him when he gets like this, and it's not as if he's started undressing already, so Thomas indulges him: even from his place lying down Richard is able to unbutton his shirt and pull off his already-unfastened braces, and from there it doesn't take much effort for him to kick off his trousers.

And then they're both wearing nothing but their undergarments, Thomas in hose-and-garters and vest-and-drawers, Richard in his camisole and shorts and the smile that only so rarely leaves his face.

God, they're really going to do this, aren't they.

Thomas wastes no time in reaching down to hold him again, more purposeful than he's been so far, because now the objective in mind isn't so much to tease as it is to bring Richard off as thoughtfully and as intently as he can. _With_ teasing, of course, just not like he could do if that was _all_ he was planning on...

Kneeling between his legs it is easier now to touch and kiss at the same time, and so Thomas encourages it as best as he can on his way, drawing his free hand up his body, stroking his ( _smooth_ ) jaw, pushing his fingers into his hair. Richard makes a soft, eager little noise as their lips meet—and then his hands are on _Thomas,_ stable upon his waist and hips, thumb at the hollows above his hipbones going back and forth. It's the way he does when he's not thinking about it, when he's fidgeting, not when he's intending to be intimate or to soothe.

Thomas pauses. He brings his right hand north again.

"You were nervous, too, weren't you," he breathes against Richard's mouth, and when he opens his eyes, they are so close and Richard is looking up at him with such intensity he thinks he'd like to immediately shut them again.

"Not _nervous,_ " Richard murmurs. He's smiling, though. "But yeah, I was a bit uncertain…"

"That's even less like you," Thomas tells him, and he's able to laugh, even, a laugh he's been holding back apparently, before kissing him again.

Deeper this time, getting his upper lip with his teeth and then using his tongue. Richard is already shuddering again, it's too much too soon in Thomas's opinion but _very_ endearing, it feels as if they've just started—so he doesn't touch him there again, choosing instead to reach above his head (he can really _sprawl_ when he wants to) to grab hold of his wrist and push down.

"Thanks," Richard says, breath warm on his lips, because he's just got to express his gratitude in the middle of things every time Thomas does anything he likes even a little (not that he's complaining).

And then he decides to use his other hand on _Thomas._

He clenches his jaw, trying and failing to stifle the surprised-but-turned-on noise leaving his throat.

_Get that smug grin off your face..._

"Don't move," he scolds, and he sits up but only to readjust: straddling one leg, his knee right at Richard's groin.

"Is _that_ what we're doing," Richard says. He lets the words hang in the air. It may or may not be a real question.

To prevent himself from falling over he does unfortunately have to quit pinning him down, but then he's able to actually _do_ things, free to hover over him with both hands to support himself and kiss everywhere he wants, free to bend his leg and press his thigh against him. He's properly erect now, and they spend what feels like it could be minutes getting Thomas to be the same: pressing against each other, knees between each other's thighs, kissing with wet and open mouths. He almost feels as if he could stay here forever… but that would defeat the purpose, really. He breaks the kiss and draws up to observe.

Richard is more enthusiastic than he's seen him in ages, head tilted back, eyes shut as he lifts his hips toward Thomas's knee, pressing back and forth with his heels to rub against him, taking control as best he can; the fabric of the drawers is silky as it slips across Thomas's skin and that is only increasing his own arousal.

But he tries his best not to put on a show, because that's Richard's job. "Thomas," he's saying, voice low and enthusiastic, "God, Thomas, fuck," his teeth catch at his lip. His cheeks and forehead are blushed; when Thomas pushes forward he whines. It's very different, this, them doing the same thing but Richard being the one who's falling apart, him being the one to be desperate and aching and seeking. That role has been Thomas's to play for months now and truth be told he is realising that he was growing a bit tired of it… this is much better.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his hand on Richard's bare arm, tucking his thumb under the strap of the camisole, watching as he shivers, "fuck, look at you," he's breathtaking, very literally at that; _God_ , he's—

"I'm afraid I'm otherwise engaged," returns Richard, coherent all of the sudden and in the most ridiculous fucking _voice_ —

But it works, making him laugh, getting him out of his head; annoyed and endeared both, Thomas leans over again to kiss him, stifling his laughter. They roll over together. The nerves dissipate, and it is so very easy now to settle down beside him, facing each other, lips locked, legs tangled. _This_ is not new, it is something they create and redevelop every single time but it's not _new,_ it's familiar and comfortable and it doesn't matter what they're wearing—that they're wearing anything at all. It is a role to slip into same as the rest, one that fits because it's tailormade, _lover partner wife husband._

Though friction seems to be taking care of things all on its own Thomas (hazy and yearning now himself) sees no harm in picking up the pace; he slips his hand between Richard's thighs from the back, through the fabric and then under it, fondling, lace at his knuckles; it's this skin-to-skin contact that serves to bring Richard over the edge. He presses his face into Thomas's neck as his body tenses, curiously quiet, and Thomas holds him close with his arm but keeps his fingers light at the back of his thigh. Richard grips him with a desperation that hasn't come out for a long while now.

And _that's_ what does it for him: sensation overtakes him, warmth curling in his gut and his legs making him gasp making him cling as he spends himself, held fast in Richard's arms.

It's over before he knows it.

It didn't take either of them very long this time, did it? Not long at all…

They lie still in each other's arms as breath returns to them, bodies pressed close. The knit of his undershirt sticks to his back from his sweat, and at his calves his garters are uncomfortable for the same reason, let alone what he'll have to deal with between the legs, but he can't bring himself to move.

And what Richard's wearing clings to his skin, too. He can feel it.

Thomas opens his eyes—you always do close them without realising during things like this—and draws back to find Richard already looking at him, warmly, fondly. There's no tension in any part of him.

"You've worn me out," he whispers, a smile at his lips.

"You've worn yourself out," Thomas says, smiling back. It's as if his face likes to settle there on its own, when he's satisfied. (He never put much thought into that until Richard started bringing it up—very recently.)

He's going to remember what he looked like, rutting against him, longing.

It'll come in handy on those days when they're not lucky enough to be in bed at the same time.

"Dunno about the clothes, though," he adds, absentminded almost. "Er, doing it in them, I mean."

Because the other part he is beginning to be sure of.

"Your idea."

"Yeah, well…"

"Nothing is ever as hot as you think it'll be, though, is it," Richard says, before he has a chance to formulate his thoughts. It's a kind gesture; they weren't going to amount to much anyway.

"Nothing?"

He laughs. It's not as energetic as it was earlier but it's every bit as pleasant. "Perhaps that's an exaggeration…"

"If not I'm disappointed in you, Mr Ellis, you should have said something before…"

No reply, just a push to his shoulder, and then he's flat on his back with Richard draping himself over him. "Meet your expectations?" he mumbles.

Too sweet… _I hope you know what you do to me._

He'd better, after all this time.

"I don't think I had any," Thomas says, truthfully.

Not that it helped much.

"I think you did, dear, even if you couldn't put words to them."

Well, he's the only other person who'd know.

"Fine," he says, because they'll talk about it later, surely; they don't have to make a thing of it now. "Whatever they were you've exceeded them…" He kisses the top of Richard's head; his reward is a quiet, contented hum. One that makes him feel guilty about where they've got to go next. "But if you want me to exceed yours you're gonna have to get off me, darling."

Another kiss, as an apology.

"Hm?"

"Can't very well wash your clothes with you still in them, can I?"

Before he knows it Richard is off of him, completely unbothered—it's almost disappointing; Thomas will probably want to cuddle up, later, if they can manage it… for once they'll have the time.

"Suppose not," Richard says, and he kisses him before straightening up entirely. "Dare I ask that you let me do yours?"

"Maybe just this once…"

The scullery is not large enough for both of them to get anything done without knocking elbows but they make it work anyway, in dressing gowns, much too warm but with no desire to change. Somehow it's all more intimate than off-putting, especially with Richard talking, chock full of ways to distract just like always… not about the war, but about other things, things he's touched on before but never explained, a whole head full of memories that weren't quite secret but were never going to be out in the open. Now they are Thomas's to keep safe in turn.

There are stories to tell, and Richard was born to tell them.

Listening—listening, and looking, and learning, from what he says and what he does and what he _wears_ , too, today and before and Thomas suspects from now on—turns out to be just as natural.

**Author's Note:**

> _find me on tumblr as[@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)_
> 
> **notes on clothing, fashion & textiles:**  
> 
> 
>   * the viscose process for creating rayon/viscose/artificial silk was developed in the early 1890s, and viscose was in use in the UK garment industry as early as 1905, but mainly for limited applications such as for lining. it didn't become popular for daily wear until the 1920s, when it took off mainly in hosiery, lingerie, and women's evening dress. by the early 1930s viscose was used not only to imitate silk but also wool+cotton, and its use broadened even further during WW2 when there were shortages on luxury goods, such that upper + upper middle class people were also wearing it (it had previously been seen as an imitation fabric, which was the point but obvs there are class constraints there); most of its modern industrial applications were also developed at this time (early 40s). richard's a snob and thomas has never in his life been up close and personal to women's clothing. where work is concerned they both would have been far more familiar with silk satin; as for their own clothing, when sateen (cotton satin) (satin is a weave; silk and cotton are fibres) was in use for menswear it was mainly for things like neckties and linings. also, in non-clothing applications, bed linens. the weights and threads for all of those applications would have been different compared to women's undergarments. high quality sateen is tricky! which is the point, same as with viscose. :-)
>   * elastic thread really is just now (as in the setting of the fic, early-mid 30s) coming into play, primarily for men's and women's hosiery both in socks/stockings/hose that could stay up without additional supports, although at this time (as with today!) this was a marketing claim that didn't always hold up in practice. a more common use was for garters and suspenders themselves, and, drumroll, for women's underwear.
>   * elastic is already a very interesting development in women's underwear and absolutely contributed to the further decline of the corset, which had begun mainly in the 20s, but when some galaxy brain decided zippers/zips/whatever you call them could _also_ be applied to women's lingerie the shape of the 30s and the state of women's underthings for the next two decades was further set. they weren't necessarily Widespread yet at this point but it was a universally liked development among most social classes, and zippers in girdles, underbust supports, and other foundation garments became one of the main daily applications for zippers. the other was in children's clothing, for obvious reasons (=easier to dress one's self w/ a zipper than with buttons or hook-and-eye fasteners!). before that, though, through the 20s, zippers were mainly a haute couture development a designer would stick on a dress to be interesting, OR, a fastener used primarily for utilitarian garments like workboots and galoshes. their new applications in underwear and children's clothing in and by the 30s were what jumpstarted their widespread popularity. naturally, WW2 sealed the deal.
> 

> 
> additional notes in the comments.


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